


(they say you can't) go home again

by against_stars



Series: rome was also built on ruins [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: City Elf Origin, Gen, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-11
Updated: 2016-06-11
Packaged: 2018-07-14 08:05:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7161662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/against_stars/pseuds/against_stars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alistair says, "Hey, Denerim — isn't that where Duncan recruited you?" and Zevran no longer has to wonder about Tabris' unusual reaction.</p><p>It must not have occurred to her that she could return home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(they say you can't) go home again

One evening in camp, Wynne spends twenty minutes with a book propped open in her lap and a handful of herbs spread out at her feet, frowning between them, before she finally closes the book and looks over toward the fire where most of them have gathered.

"Warden," she says, her voice carrying gently through the camp. Tabris looks up; Alistair does not. Zevran makes a note of this. "If we could make a stop in Denerim sometime soon, I would appreciate that. I'd like to pick up a few books from a store there."

The look that crosses Tabris' face is an interesting one, if hard to decipher. In the flash of an eye she looks angry, then confused, then settles into a careful blankness. "Of course we can. It's not far from where we're going next."

"Thank you, Warden." Wynne doesn't seem to have seen Tabris' struggle, turning back to her herbs with serenity.

Then Alistair says, "Hey, Denerim — isn't that where Duncan recruited you?" and Zevran no longer has to wonder about Tabris' unusual reaction.

It must not have occurred to her that she could return home.

-

Inexplicably, Tabris leaves her sword behind in camp when they stop outside of Denerim. Alistair doesn't appear to take any notice, but Zevran catches Leliana's eye as he slides extra knives into his armor, and sees her minute nod of approval.

well, if the Warden intends to be stupid and go walking around unarmed, that's her business, but she can't keep the Crows off Zevran's back if she's dead, so he will be prepared for her.

Then at the city gate she stops, lifts up her hand. "Wait," she says, and turns to Zevran. "Zev, give Leliana your knives. The ones on your back."

The only visible ones. "My dear Warden, whatever does Leliana need with more knives?" Zevran asks, making no move to obey her.

She frowns, but it's a distant thing, not directed at him specifically. "We're not allowed weapons in public."

"Who is 'we'?"

She recites flatly, "' _Elves who have swords will die upon them_.'"

Hence leaving her sword in camp. Behind her, Alistair and Leliana look uncomfortable, and Zevran recalls eavesdropping on Tabris snapping at Leliana over her thoughtless ignorance about life as an elf, and he can't really feel sorry for her over it. He heard her glowing description of Val Royeaux, after all. She speaks as a woman who never saw its alienage.

Zevran has known Riona Tabris for less than a month, and even he can tell that if the woman took one look at the way Val Royeaux crammed its elves out of sight, she would declare war on the Empress herself.

"That applies only to citizens of Denerim," Zevran points out. "I am Antivan, and you, my dear, are a Grey Warden, no longer bound by the petty laws of men."

Another series of thunderstruck expressions flashes across Tabris' face, but instead of adopting the same artificial neutrality as before, she rounds on Alistair, eyes flashing.

"Let me wear your sword," she demands.

"Uh, okay," says Alistair, obediently unhooking the sheath and handing it over. "Can I ask why?"

Tabris buckles it on and marches toward the city doors, her jaw set. "Because they can't stop me."

-

When they leave Wynne to peruse the Wonders of Thedas to her satisfaction, Tabris does not _entirely_ bolt across the city toward the Alienage, but it's clear she's working hard to restrain herself.

She slows down when the gate comes into view, and Zevran looks between her puzzled frown and the guard by the trellis.

"It's a market day," she mutters, brows creasing, "why's the gate closed?"

The guard makes no move to open the gate when they approach, and Tabris' frown takes on a darker edge.

"Raise the gate, please," she says to him. He doesn't move.

"By order of Arl Howe, no one is to enter or leave the Alienage," he says, bored, not even looking at any of them.

Tabris has to visibly rein herself in before she opens her mouth again. " _Kendalls_ is the arl and this is _my bloody alienage_ ," she says tightly.

The guard actually glances down at her then, eyes flicking over the sharp jut of he ears as if just now noticing her. "You might not want to advertise that too loud," he sneers, "or some folks might do good and put you down. Arl _Kendalls_ died at Ostagar, and your lot murdered his heir in a bloody riot. The regent appointed Howe as arl, and he put them down like the animals you are. No one is allowed in or out until order has been restored."

As he speaks, Tabris' face drains ashen, then flushes, furiously dark. "Vaughan wasn't killed in a fucking _riot_!" she snarls, teeth bared and snapping. "Vaughan's dead because _I FUCKING MURDERED HIM_!"

"Well, one of you did," says the guard, unbothered, "and now they're all going to have to stay here until they learn to behave. So I suggest you _run along_."

Zevran reaches out in a flash and closes a hand around one of Tabris' wrists before she can do more than twitch toward Alistair's sword on her hip, and he sees Leliana do the same at Tabris' other arm. They manage to steer Tabris away, and once the gates are out of sight she seems to shut down, going silent and unresponsive.

On one hand, Zevran would certainly have enjoyed watching the Warden tear the guard to shreds — and the man deserved it — but Denerim is a good trade city, and it would be unfortunate to be barred from it for open murder.

(Even so, he makes a quick, careful study of the man's face, for when he gets restless and feels like making sure his skills as a Crow do not get rusty.)

-

They reach camp just before dark, and the Warden marches immediately over to Bodhan's caravan. Curious, Zevran watches the short transaction, Tabris handing the dwarf a fistful of silvers and stalking away with an entire crate of empty glass flasks.

She storms straight out of camp and into the woods.

Alistair shoots Leliana an alarmed look, making a move to rise from his place by the fire, but Leliana shakes her head slightly, and Alistair settles back down, looking concerned but accepting. Whatever the Warden is doing is her business. After today, she deserves her own space.

It's very kind and thoughtful of Leliana. She is clearly a good woman, skilled at reading people and doing her best to do well by them.

Zevran is no such thing, so he slips into the shadows and follows Tabris' unhurried, unconcealed footprints through the underbrush.

She is far enough away from camp that the glow of the fire is an afterthought behind them, and Zevran watches her drop the crate at her feet. She palms one of the glass orbs, hefting it in her hand lightly before —

rearing back and flinging it at a tree in front of her.

Glass fragments explode in a shower, and she grits her teeth on a growl.

She picks up another flask — it bursts against bark, and she growls louder.

And another, another, another — shards litter the base of the tree, sparkling like snow, and her snarling becomes a muffled scream.

The crate is nearly empty when she drops to her knees, then sits back heavily on her heels, chest heaving. After a moment of staring at the mess of glass, she leans forward, elbows on her thighs, and drops her head in her hands. Zevran can see her knuckles going pale as she clutches her hair.

Alienage elves rarely leave the city they are born in. Some run for the Dalish, some are taken to Circles, and some are sent to other alienages in marriage exchanges, but otherwise an alienage is where one is born, lives, and dies.

Recruitment to the Wardens is considered the death of one's old life, as Zevran understands it. The stricken look on Tabris' face when she realized she could go back to Denerim was the look of a woman facing resurrection, revival. Being able to return, however briefly, to the people she left behind.

This — this is a woman grieving.

He should leave her to it. Leliana was right to make Alistair leave it alone.

Zevran silently retraces his footsteps back toward camp —

Then, before he can convince himself not to, he backtracks again, this time making sure his footsteps are clear. He even rustles a few branches like an amateur.

The Warden hasn't looked up by the time he reaches her again, but she doesn't startle when he sits down gingerly at her side, crossing his legs and leaning forward.

Finally, she lifts her head to peer at him. Her face is dry, and the only redness in her eyes is from where she's been grinding the balls of her hands against them. She doesn't say anything.

Equally silent, Zevran plucks a flask out of the crate beside them and offers it to her.

Tabris only sighs. "I might as well save a few," she says, faintly hoarse. "I paid full price for 'em."

Zevran has no business prying. He follows the Warden to stop the darkspawn and keep the Crows off his back. He doesn't need to know her life story to do any of that.

But she has spent so many evenings at his side, needling him for stories of his 'adventures' as if he were a bard with delightful tales, and she has asked him how he feels about the things that happen around them. She asks for his thoughts, and listens when he gives them. She remembers what he tells her.

Does anyone ask her the same? Does anyone ask her about her history, her thoughts? So far, Zevran has heard a lot of 'Warden, will you do this for me?' and not a lot of 'Tabris, are you all right?'

Zevran doesn't have a lot of practice doing that himself, but — perhaps he can try. Someone should.

"I could not help but notice you seem somewhat distressed," Zevran says. Tabris' expressive mouth goes tight at the corners. "Feel free to break one of those bottles over my head if I overstep, but... are you all right?"

For a moment, Tabris just looks at him, almost uncomprehending, but it's only a heartbeat before she huffs and looks back over at the mess of glass across from them.

"I'm not," she admits.

Zevran is a little surprised that she actually answers. More surprising is that she doesn't sound as if the confession was dragged out of her. She sounds... like she was simply waiting for someone to ask.

"When that guard spoke of the riot..." he starts, then trails off, not entirely certain how to continue.

"If there even _was_ a riot." Her sharp, expressive face twists into another snarl. " _I_ killed the arl's son. I murdered that sick waste of space in his own bedroom — and I _confessed_!"

Tabris' eyes glitter in the dark, her teeth bared in a proud smile as hard and sharp as the glass on the ground. "The guards came to arrest me and I bloody _told them_ I had done it, had the sword in my hand and everything. I said, yeah, I did it! I slit his worthless throat! And I'd do it again!"

Riled up again, Tabris snatches the flask from Zevran's hand and launches it at the tree with another wordless yell. "I knew even when I did it that they'd try to use it as an excuse for a purge, but — it was either kill him, or, or —"

There is a short list of reasons why an elven woman would be in a nobleman's bedroom.

Her shoulders tense up, hunched tight around her ears. "I thought if I confessed, they'd hang me and be done. No need to bother the alienage when the criminal is already caught, yeah? And then it didn't matter. I took the blame alone so no one else would get punished, and it didn't fucking matter at all."

In the Crows, there was no reason to expect complaints to be met with anything other than punishment, or to offer comfort to others. That doesn't mean it didn't happen, but — Zevran is unpracticed, even so. He considers his words carefully.

"It sounds to me as though this new arl simply needed an excuse," he says.

"Yeah," she says, sounding abruptly very drained. "And I gave him one."

if the new arl was appointed by Loghain, it stands to reason that Loghain would have probably found some way to put him in charge one way or another, whether Tabris had killed the original arl's heir or not. It sounds as if more maneuvering is in place in Denerim than anyone had predicted, and the alienage is only one casualty. The blame, then, is on Loghain for using Denerim's unrest for his own profit.

But Zevran is not sure how to say any of that. Comfort isn't a well-honed skill. Support does not sit weighted and comfortable in his hand like the hilt of a blade. Cannot be brewed like a toxin.

"I poisoned that guard before we left," he says instead. "Not lethally, but he won't be on duty for a very long time."

Tabris stares at him, then barks a startled laugh like she doesn't know how to keep it in her mouth. The laugh doesn't stop, tripping out of her until she's hunched over, fists squeezing dark earth between her fingers, and Zevran is grazing her shoulder with his own and cackling along with her.

When they catch their breath, she wipes her filthy hands on her thighs and creaks into standing, stiff from sitting tense for so long. She drags Zevran up too.

"Thank you," she tells him, sincerely. For the poison, for the laughter. For listening, Zevran hopes. For caring to ask.

"Any time at all, dear Warden," Zevran says, following her as she steps back through the trees toward the campfire.

She stops briefly, twists around to look him in the eye. "You can call me Riona."

Zevran's footsteps don't falter, and he nudges her back to walking once he's at her side. They keep pace together through the woods. "Riona, then."

**Author's Note:**

> come hang out with me [on tumblr](http://against-stars.tumblr.com), it's mostly Dragon Age and me rambling or doodling my silly OCs.


End file.
